


Cleaning the Pipes

by weirdnessmagnet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4244640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdnessmagnet/pseuds/weirdnessmagnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: A lot of Sam’s sex life involves Dean, in one way or another.</p>
<p>Disclaimers: The boys belong to Kripke and CW. They aren’t mine, or this would be canon.</p>
<p>Spoilers: Through the first season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaning the Pipes

The first time Sam has sex, it’s because of Dean.  
  
Her name is Heather, she's a cheerleader (a _cheerleader_ , of all things), and Sam is almost seventeen. Dean knows Sam likes her. Sam walks towards the car and Dean is leaning against it waiting to pick him up, pretending to ignore the eyes of the high school girls on him. Sam casts one final look back at Heather as she says goodbye to her friends.   
  
“You should ask her out,” Dean tells him. He’s got that smirk on his face, the one that’s partly sexy and partly mocking, the one that Dean gets whenever he talks to Sam about girls he knows Sam likes. Sam wants to punch that smirk.  
  
“She’s a cheerleader, Dean,” Sam says.   
  
“So?” Dean is all charisma and charm as he eyes the blonde across the parking lot.   
  
Sam grits his teeth. “So, she'll shoot me down in front of her friends, I’ll be humiliated more than usual, and I’d rather not deal with that.”   
  
“Tall and geeky isn’t her type, huh?”  
  
Sam resists the urge to deck his older brother and yanks the passenger door open. Dean pushes the door shut again before Sam can toss his backpack in. “Ask her out.” Dean’s face is completely serious.  
  
“No way.”   
  
“Ask her out. Right now. She won’t say no.”  
  
“Forget it, Dean. She won’t go out with me.”  
  
“She’ll go out with you once." Dean’s smile is lecherous. "Once is all it takes.”   
  
Sam gives him his patented don’t-be-such-a-horndog look. “Dean.”  
  
“Can’t clean your own pipes forever, Sammy boy,” Dean’s grin gets impossibly wider.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes in disgust and yanks on the door handle again. “Can we go home now?”

Dean leans on the door to keep it shut. “You ask her out right now, and I’ll let you drive my car on your date.” Dean’s grin is gone. “And I’ll get you out of training on Saturday.”  
  
Sam narrows his eyes. “You’re not serious.”  
  
Dean looks at him.  
  
“Okay, you _are_ serious. Dean -- "  
  
“Ask her out in the next thirty seconds or the offer’s off. And I’ll tell Dad you’ve been slacking on your knife practice.”  
  
“But I haven’t been slacking!” Sam isn’t whining. He’s _not._  
  
“I know. Dad’ll believe me anyway.”  
  
Sam fumbles through asking her out. She smiles in the way people smile at the homeless -- pity disguised as compassion -- but Dean’s right, she doesn’t say no. Sam takes Heather to a chain Italian restaurant she likes, and afterwards they have sex in her bedroom while her parents are out at a movie. Sam blunders through it and comes too soon, and she giggles at his ineptness. He knows she's laughing at him and not at the general ludicrousness of two teenagers’ clumsy attempts at lovemaking. He gets dressed and leaves as soon as he can. He doesn’t offer to call her, and she doesn’t act like she wants him to.  
  
Sam returns to the hotel where they've been living for nearly two months, and Dean grins at him the minute he sees Sam's dishevelled appearance.   
  
"How was it?" Dean's grin is brilliant and beaming with masculine, brotherly pride. Sam ducks his head. He’s embarrassed when he blushes, then is more embarrassed when he realizes that Dean expects him to be embarrassed.   
  
"Good," he says finally.  
  
He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder and offers him a drink from Dad’s stash of Jack. Sam stiffly accepts Dean's big-brother affection and the alcohol until he can't stand either one any more. Dean realizes too late that Sam's upset, and his smile is fading slightly when Sam retreats to the bathroom. A long time under scalding-hot water gets the smell of her off his skin.   
  
Dean doesn't say anything to Sam when he comes to bed. They don't talk about it again, ever.  
  
**  
  
The second time Sam has sex, it's with Jessica.  
  
They've been dating almost two months. Asking her out was fairly easy. Sam accepts that he will never be as smooth with women as Dean is, but Jessica smiled at him with interest rather than pity when he asked her to a poli-sci study session over pizza and beer.   
  
Things had progressed from there easily, naturally, and it freaked Sam out a little. He wonders if it was like that for his Dad and Mom when they were dating. He thinks about calling his dad, but he doesn’t.   
  
Jess never laughs at him, even after she discovers the bordering-on-OCD color-coding system he uses for note taking and the way he can't leave the grocery store without buying salt. When she laughs, it’s _near_ him rather than _at_ him, and when she does it she hugs him affectionately or stands on her toes to kiss the tip of his nose.   
  
He tells her little about his past and his family. He tells her as much truth as he can. If Jess suspects Sam has lied about the rest of it, she never lets on. She learns not to ask about his family.  
  
When they're alone in his dorm room bed she lets him do whatever he wants. He uses every technique he ever read in the magazines Dean left around, everything he remembers Dean telling him about sex. He focuses on Jess, listening for every breathy moan and every quiver, every gasp to tell him where to touch and how hard and when to stop. Or not.  
  
He gets her off three times with his fingers and his mouth. She practically grabs him by the hair and draws him up her body. "What's wrong?" he asks.  
  
"I swear to God, Sam, if you don't do it right now..."  
  
Sam actually hesitates. "Are you sure?" It's not what he means to ask. _Are you sure you want me? Are you sure I won't hurt you? Are you sure you won't disappear afterward? Are you sure you won't laugh?_  
  
"Yes." There's impatience and slight irritation in her tone, but mostly there's need and he’s not used to hearing that from her.  
  
"I want you to enjoy it,” he stammers. "A woman is less likely to achieve orgasm during vaginal intercourse than through other forms of --”  
  
She digs her fingers in his hair and kisses the breath out of him. Her tongue runs across his lips, tasting herself on him. "Sam," she says when she finally breaks the kiss, "stop talking."  
  
As soon as his dorm housing contract is up, they move in together. He doesn’t tell Dean or Dad, but somehow the postcards from the road are addressed to Sam’s new apartment anyway.  
  
**  
  
Sam hasn't masturbated since Jessica died. His dick betrays him on occasion: morning wood and involuntary twitches when Dean finds not-completely-horrific porn on the motel televisions. But Sam’s focus is on finding Dad and hunting in the meantime, and his body falls into line.  
  
He's spent months watching Dean's eyes follow barflies and diner waitresses and disappear after them into the shadows of back hallways. Sometimes Dean waggles his eyebrows and suggests that maybe Sam ought to take a crack at that little lady in the too-tight shirt. Sam just rolls his eyes and gives Dean his exasperated look until either Dean sags back in his chair and asks what Sam’s researching or goes after the girl in question himself, off on his second-favorite kind of hunt.   
  
Sam doesn't chase after girls. He doesn't flirt, not even to get information. He's not any good at flirting anyway, not the way Dean is. Dean flirts like he breathes, just oozes charm and sensuality out of every pore, unaware he's even doing it most of the time. Dean is way too effective at it when he's _trying_ to flirt. Sam prefers to stick with his strengths, and as long as Dean is around, he doesn’t have to embarrass himself by trying to charm women.  
  
Sam doesn’t really _see_ women any more. They skirt the edges of his field of vision, only coming into focus when they’re in danger or trying to kill him. There are exceptions, but they’re rare. The only people that matter, really matter, are Dean and Dad. And Dad wouldn’t matter so much if he wasn’t missing.  
  
The few occasions when Sam allows himself to palm his cock in the shower, his mind flashes to Jessica’s body pinned on the ceiling and dripping blood on him. Salt water on his face mixes with the shower spray, and Sam’s cock doesn’t stay hard long.   
  
If Dean hears him, he never says anything beyond, “You better have left me some hot water.”  
  
**  
  
Sam kisses Sarah because Dean wants him to be okay.   
  
Sam likes her, too, and if they ever stayed in one place long enough he might have tried dating her. But mostly he kisses Sarah because Dean won’t stop worrying about him until he kisses _someone_ , and she’s nice and unless he’s completely read her wrong Sam thinks she wants him to.  
  
Sam gets in the car after kissing her goodbye. Dean doesn’t stop grinning for the next hundred miles.  
  
**  
  
"I'm going on a supply run," Dean says. He's looking at the bar down the street when he says it, so Sam figures Dean won't be back for dinner.  
  
He's fine with that. They've been living on top of each other for the last week, and Sam could use some time alone in the motel room not being subjected to Dean's taste in television.   
  
Sam folds the clean laundry and re-packs the duffels, then opts for a shower. The water cascades over his skin, too warm, or maybe _he's_ just too warm inside. His body has been reacting to things lately: random, stupid things like kissing scenes on TV shows and cute waitresses. It makes him feel like a stupid teenager again, makes him angry at his lack of self-control.   
  
He adjusts the water temperature and it doesn't help. His groin is heavy, thickening despite how not in the mood he feels. He soaps himself carefully, rinses, and towels dry, giving his cock as little attention as he can manage.  
  
Sam leans back on his bed. He hasn’t bothered getting dressed yet. The cool motel air feels good on his damp skin, and there aren’t enough towels anyway. Sam picks up the remote and idly channel surfs while he air-dries. He lingers on _Jeopardy!_ until he loses three questions in a row on 18th-century poets. Sam gets annoyed at how much he’s forgotten since leaving Stanford and changes channels to a cooking show.   
  
He watches until he feels his dick harden as the chef massages oil and herbs into a leg of lamb for a lot longer than Sam thinks is strictly necessary. His dick pokes the towel into a tent shape as he clicks away from that show. He punches a random number into the remote and lands on a porn movie.  
  
His dick twitches invitingly beneath the towel. Sam bangs the back of his head against the wall in frustration. Obviously, the Universe hates him.   
  
The smart thing to do, Sam decides, is just handle it. Too many years of their dad telling them that procrastination and avoidance get you dead, or worse. He tries not to think about their Dad as he searches for the hand lotion in the duffel bag.   
  
The hand lotion is too slick on Sam’s skin. His hand skims over his shaft. He watches the flickering images of the random blonde women on the TV, all generic surgically-enhanced breasts and heavy makeup. His mind flits to waves of blonde curls curtaining his face and he's suddenly beneath Jess, her breasts in his face, hair surrounding him, scent of her skin and her sex filling his head.   
  
He remembers the way he'd thread his fingers into her mop of hair, how she'd press her head back against his grip and grind harder on him in response. She loved the feel of his hand on the back of her neck, and he'd clutch at her and bury his face into her neck and move up into her. She’d slide down and gasp and he'd groan and dig his fingers into her hip and urge her harder, faster, knowing he won't last with her on him like this. She knows how this drives him crazy, how he's completely utterly hers when she's on him. He's lost in her hair and her skin and her smell and her blue, blue eyes, and he envisions her eyes again, wide and shocky and scared and she's bleeding, eviscerated and pressed against the ceiling and her blood drips into his eyes and Sam is screaming and the room explodes and Dean is there pulling him out of the flames and Sam can't stop screaming _No_ \--  
  
He hears the key in the lock and Sam rolls away, turning his back to the door. He's bareassed naked and his lungs burn. He's sobbing into his fist, his other hand still wrapped around his dick and he doesn't want Dean to see him like this but he can't stop shaking.  
  
"Sam?" There's a tease in his voice at first, but Sam can hear the moment Dean realizes Sam's crying. Dean's suddenly _there_ , his big warm hands rolling Sam onto his back. "Sammy?"  
  
"Can't," Sam chokes out around the pain in his chest.   
  
"You hurt?” Dean’s hands move over him, looking for wounds. “Sam, what’s wrong?"   
  
"I can't do it.”  
  
“Do what, Sam?” Dean’s voice is urgent. He brushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes, smearing tears into his hair.  
  
“I see her."  
  
“Who?” Dean’s hands flex on Sam’s arms.   
  
“I close my eyes and I see her. I can’t. I can’t.” Sam says it over and over. He covers his still-hard dick with this hand and curls in on himself.   
  
“Jess?" Dean says. His voice is too soft. Dean should be making fun of him. He should be laughing at how pathetic Sam is, walking in on his brother buck naked and jerking off to grainy motel porn. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and feels the tears roll down his temples. Sam waits for Dean to act like Dean and give him hell.   
  
Dean doesn't. Dean slides an arm beneath Sam's head and shoulders. Sam finds himself cradled against Dean's chest. He smells smoke and alcohol from the bar clinging to his brother's leather coat. "Sam, look at me." Command voice, and Sam has no choice but to obey. His brother’s green eyes are creased and it makes Sam’s chest hurt worse. Dean is worried about him, and Sam tries to get his breathing under control. Collect himself enough to get dressed and pretend this never happened.   
  
He wants to tell Dean he’s fine. He wants to get off this bed, get dressed, maybe do some research until he’s too tired to see. He can’t get _I’m fine_ to come out. "I can't," Sam says again.   
  
"It's okay," Dean says. “It’s okay, Sam. Look at me. Look right here.” His voice is quiet, gentling. Sam inhales slowly as Dean skims a hand over Sam’s face, brushing his hair.   
  
Sam looks into Dean’s eyes. He focuses on his breathing -- in, out, in, out -- right until Dean's hand trails down and wraps around Sam’s fingers still tangled around his dick. Dean makes Sam move his hand, slow up-down over his cock. Sam swallows and stiffens in Dean's grasp. "Dean?"  
  
"Look at me, Sam," Dean says. "Right here. Don't close your eyes. Keep looking at me."  
  
Sam swallows. He locks eyes with Dean. Dean barely blinks as they move their hands over Sam's dick. Dean makes him tease the head and scrape gently along the shaft. Sam shudders against Dean's chest. Wide green eyes all Sam can see and hands on his dick all he feels. Dean slowly shifts his hand from Sam’s and slides lower, down to Sam’s balls.  
  
"Keep going," Dean whispers.  
  
Sam maintains the rhythm on his dick and Dean's fingers play with his balls, stroke the soft skin of Sam’s inner thighs. Dean’s hands skate up and tease Sam’s balls again, sneaking behind with calloused fingers and pressing that hard spot behind his balls. It makes Sam gasp and buck. Sam moans and he almost closes his eyes at the sensation but Dean's gaze is too intense. He can't close his eyes against it, can't turn his face into the leather and breathe the way he wants to, because Dean told him to keep looking at him.   
  
Sam’s cock pulses pre-come into his fist. The stimulation is too much. The weight of Dean watching him is also more than he can handle, and he wants to turn his face away. Wants to kiss Dean's mouth, do anything that lets him close his eyes against the onslaught.   
  
"Good boy," Dean murmurs.  
  
"Dean."  
  
"It's okay," Dean says. "Come if it feels good."  
  
"I _can't_."  
  
"Yeah, you can. I've got you."  
  
Sam moans louder than he means to, but he can't stop his body from shuddering or his cock from twitching or Dean from teasing his balls exactly the way he likes it. Can’t stop his own hand from sliding slick-sweet over his cock. Can’t stop Dean from rubbing a wet finger across his hole or the way Sam spreads his legs a little more every time Dean does it. Can't stop the way his hips buck and the intense green eyes boring into his own and oh god, he's going to -- he can't --  
  
"That’s my boy, come on, Sam…"  
  
Sharp cry and Sam's head falls back over Dean's arm as he spasms and shoots all over himself. Dean’s fingers slide around his own and keep stroking Sam’s dick through the aftershocks until Sam whimpers in discomfort.  
  
Dean eases Sam back onto the bed and disentangles himself. Sam lets his eyes flutter shut. His limbs are heavy and he can’t keep his eyes open. He hears water running in the bathroom over his own harsh breathing. A few minutes later he feels the bed dip and warm wetness on his groin. He opens his eyes to see Dean wiping him clean with a washcloth. Dean runs the cloth across Sam’s sticky hand before tossing it at the sink.   
  
Dean maneuvers Sam under the covers and tucks him in. Sam helps him, sort of, but it’s hard to move and he’s suddenly very, very tired. Sam is naked, sweaty, and spent and smells like Dean's coat.  
  
Dean brushes Sam’s hair from his face. "Go to sleep," he says.  
  
"Dean..." Sam’s voice comes out sleepy but he wants to talk. Dean just jerked him off and come morning this is going to be miles from okay, and Sam can’t have _them_ be broken too.   
  
"Go to sleep, Sam," Dean says, and turns off the light. Sam hears Dean's clothes rustle as he strips and gets into the other bed. Sam falls asleep to the sound of gentle snoring, but doesn't know if that's Dean's loud breathing or his own.  
  
**  
  
They don't talk about it.  They avoid talking about sex at all until after the next job is over four days later. Dean is riding high after a particularly successful and gruesome hunt (god, but kelpies are assholes) and he's shooting pool and tossing back beers and all but crowing in triumph.   
  
Their waitress is an unnatural redhead, but she's got huge tracts of land and leans over unnecessarily when gathering up the empties. Dean takes a long pull from his beer and stares directly at her chest, which makes the waitress grin and shimmy back to the bar. Sam doesn't roll his eyes when Dean ogles her.   
  
"What?" Dean says to him.  
  
"What, what?"   
  
"Aren't you going to roll your eyes and give me the 'you're always thinking with your dick' speech?"  
  
Sam swallows a swig. "We’ve earned some fun. And as you once poetically said --" Sam gestures to the departing waitress, " -- that's fun."  
  
Dean's eyebrow twitches. “You sure?” Dean asks.  
  
Sam smiles into his beer. “Yep.”  
  
Dean's face splits into a grin. He hands Sam the motel key. "Don't wait up."  
  
"Never do," Sam says, but Dean's halfway across the bar.  
  
The air is crisp but not too cold as he walks back to the motel. He'd turned the heat up when they left for dinner, so the room is comfortably warm when Sam enters, tossing the key onto the table. He kicks off his shoes and flops on the bed, picking up the remote and switching on the television.   
  
He surfs through infomercials, pauses on the weather reports, listens to the news, and eventually finds porn. It's decent porn for once, or at least featuring a porn star he's seen before with remarkable flexibility and an even more impressive bra, at least from an engineering standpoint. He finds himself absently stroking his nipple through his t-shirt.   
  
Sam scrunches the pillows under his back and props against the headboard. He slides a hand lower, feels himself half-hard through the denim and pushes against the growing bulge. He closes his eyes and listens to the moaning from the television, and imagines green eyes.  
  
~end

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LiveJournal on 20-Jan-2009. I'm just now getting all my old stories posted over here on AO3.


End file.
